Slaying the Dragon
by TheseBrokenWings
Summary: Oy. Just read it. Set after the last episode, just a short AngelSpike. I like it, though. Rated M just as a precaution, nothing really graphic.


It had been Spike who slew the dragon. From the moment Angel had expressed his wish to, he had known it would be. That was Spike. Always competing with him always upstaging him, always trying, well, either to be him, or to kill him. It changed.

Spike's face was strained pink with blood and excitement, his fangs extended, face wrinkled. He had long ago lost his weapon, resorting to fighting with tooth and claw. He looked primal, pure, and beautiful, his leather coat trailing behind him, flying as he too flew, at the necks of their attackers; breaking them in two, leaving a trail of moaning bodies behind him. He looked at Angel, positively glowing, and grinned knowingly. "Keep your eyes on the battle, mate," he yelled. Their eyes met, Spike's alive with passion, exhilaration, blood, his face contorted, inhuman; Angel's eyes blue and cold, his face still appearing for all the world to be human, a sword clutched in his right hand, while Spike's fangs dripped with blood. It lasted only a moment before Spike, with a warrior's howl, leapt back into battle, tearing out the dragon's throat.

Afterward, when the battle was over, Angel sat on the bed in the dingy motel room he had rented, staring out window into the darkness, but seeing only Spike's face in his head; that animal grin.

There was something, something there, that made Spike even more real, more alive that he was, though his heart beat no more than Angel's did, and the only blood that ran through his veins was the blood of others. Spike, with the soul he fought for. Spike, who loved Buffy, loved her with a fire that Angel had never been able to muster. He had loved her like she was his first, like she was the only person in the world, when Angel had always had others in the back of his ancient mind, regardless of how happy he had been to be with her. He had tried, back then, to tell himself that it was just caution, apprehension, the curse. But it was more than that. He had loved her, but…

One day, during those final weeks, Spike had found his way into Angel's bed. It had happened before, of course, back when they were – if not younger – at least less tired, soulless, and left alone by their respective female. Spike was new, unaccustomed to the Vampire's way, so he had protested at first. Angel had pinned him down against the straw mattress and taken him, until the other vampire moaned like a girl beneath him, and dust filled the air.

Since then, the incident, initiated always by Angel, was repeated only when Spike angered him to the point where he felt he needed to assert his dominance with, more definite than words or violence, his cock.

But since Angel was cursed with his soul, they had stopped. That is, until the night.

Such a simple thing; the man sliding, cold, naked and hard into his bed, pressing himself bodily against Angel's back. Simple, but the emotions it has stirred in Angel were staggering, imbuing him with such…

He was desperately lonely; no one had touched him in, it seemed - not even casual touches - a hundred years; he was scared; he knew what was coming, this war; he missed Buffy, missed Darla, missed Fred, missed Conner, missed –

He twisted over grabbing Spike's face and kissing him violently, fang clashing against fang, Angel feeling more alive than he had since he had been.

Spike had killed the dragon, and then he had been killed. Decapitated by a blade wielded by a vampire. Angel had watched him fall to dust, stoic as always. And then he had killed. He felt his face change, finally, letting the sword ship from his fingers and he killed; stopping only when Illiria clenched his arms to his body, pinning his face to the ground, his fangs still scrabbling desperately at the dirt.

Spike had always been alive. Angel realized that now. Although he was good, although he had a soul, he was able to remain a vampire, and that was what allowed him to live. That was what made him better. Angel had always been caught in between.

That was what was so important about Spike, to him. The vampire in Angel remembered the feel of him writhing under his hips. Spike had always been able to make him forget the human, forget the soul, to feel the fangs extend from the weak human teeth, feel the rage in his still heart, the urge to fight, suck, kill…

But Angel sat thinking about Spike, on the bed in the dingy hotel, and the human in him allowed him to cry.


End file.
